


For Those In Peril On The Sea

by mydogwatson



Series: DIALOGUES [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Good wine, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John talk while sharing a special dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Those In Peril On The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> It occurs that I have not recently passed along the sad fact that I do not own Sherlock and John. Recent evidence [season 3] suggests that they would would be a lot happier if I did. [To repeat, I love it. And I hate it.] But even if the boys belong to Mofftiss and/or the blessed ACD, I can have my way with them So to speak.
> 
> Hope you like!

He was late, of course.

It would have been ridiculous to expect anything else even on this occasion, and while the world might see John Hamish Watson as being ten kinds of an idiot, I am not a fool.

So a bit late, yes, but he came, as he’d promised. Which did not surprise me either.

The important promises he made [to me] were always kept. A promise to buy milk or clean up the spilled acid on the kitchen table, not so much, of course. I pick my battles.

His arrival was not without a bit of drama, naturally. There is no Sherlock Holmes without drama and who would have it otherwise? Not me, for sure.

So he entered the café with a swirling of the coat, a tossing of the curls, an absent-minded greeting to both Angelo and the waiter, Billy. I just watched as the coat was removed, revealing a perfectly tailored black suit, and the aubergine shirt that we both know is my favorite.

At last, Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite mine and gave me a quicksilver smile that was gone almost as soon as it arrived. It is probably not right to feel quite so honoured by a mere smile from the person one is sleeping with, but that is my life. Thankfully, I no longer have a therapist who would demand explanations. “My apologies,” he said. “Lestrade would not let me go until every detail was explained completely, in words of fewer than three syllables.” He shook his head. “I despair, John, I really do.”

Instead of responding to that, I picked up the carafe and poured him a glass of wine.

“Thank you.” He took a tentative sip and nodded in approval. “A good choice, John. It seems that my lessons have not been wasted.”

Arrogant git. “Glad not to disappoint,” I said crisply. Then my lips twitched just a little. “At least in one respect.”

He was now looking around the room, deducing and cataloguing. “Don’t be ridiculous, John,” he said absently. “You never disappoint.”

Well, I knew that to be patently untrue, but did not argue the point. Billy stopped tableside to take our order---the lasagna for me and spaghetti tossed in olive oil for Sherlock.

That business taken care of, he settled more comfortably into the chair, releasing a sigh that would not have been noticed by anyone but me.

“Tell me something, Sherlock,” I said after we each had taken several more sips of the wine. Which had, in fact, been Angelo’s choice, but that jolly man would not give me away.

“Yes? What shall I tell you, John?”

I shrugged. “Anything. Whatever you like.”

There was an extended pause, during which I waited patiently. Sharing a life with Sherlock Holmes one learned to use patience like a tool. Or a weapon.

I never knew what to expect when I made this request. Only rarely was it ignored. Sometimes what he said would have me giggling madly as he recounted an especially absurd example of the idiocy displayed by the population of, well, the whole world, actually. [Most often, he exempts me and I take far too much pleasure in that.] Other times I would struggle not to weep, most often as he spoke in a barely audible whisper about his Time Away, as we now refer to those two years. When we must refer to them at all.

So there was really no way of knowing what he would tell me tonight.

“This is actually a story in two parts,” he said finally. “The first part happened when I was ten. Just exactly ten, in fact.”

I had seen a picture of him at that age, on one of those rare occasions when we visited his parents and now I brought the image to mind: a skinny boy who was all eyes and curls, with a preternaturally knowing smile.

Billy arrived with our meal. He set the plates down in front of us and slipped away again. Sherlock took a careful bite, as if not sure that he would like it, despite the fact that he ordered the same dish almost every time we came here.

Once he had sampled and approved of the food, he sipped some more wine and took up the tale once again. “My mother has always been an optimist.” The tone was one that would have been more appropriate to announcing that Mummy Holmes was a serial poisoner of innocent house pets.

“For reasons that I will never understand, she decided that a surprise party on my tenth birthday was something I would enjoy.”

In amused reaction to what must have been my expression at the very idea, Sherlock nodded. “Exactly, John.”

Billy passed by with only a glance and I nodded to indicate that all was well.

“To begin with, just trying to keep anything a secret from me was foolish. I knew almost immediately what she was up to.” He twirled spaghetti onto his fork and gave a slight smirk. “I even knew the theme.”

And I knew Sherlock, so it was not a stretch to say, “Pirates.”

“Indeed. Well, of course, I decided to absent myself on the day in question and I hid in an abandoned garden shed. It was actually quite interesting,” he digressed. “I was able to observe earth worms for several hours.” Then he sighed. “It was Mycroft who found me, naturally. He understood my feelings, but nevertheless persuaded me that my filial duty required me to indulge our mother in this.” He ate a couple more bites. “He also bribed me with the use of his microscope, which was far superior to mine.”

I snickered and he shrugged a bit sheepishly.

Then he looked at the half-empty plate and pushed it away; he’d eaten more than I’d thought he would, so I said nothing.

“I allowed Mycroft to drag me into the front parlour, which my mother had decorated with rather horrifying enthusiasm. There was even a mock-up of a ship, complete with gangplank.”

I struggled to remember my own tenth birthday party, but all that came to mind was a muddy game of football and eating enough cake and ice cream to be ill. It had been a good party.

“Mother, Mycroft, and I sat in the room for an hour before she realised what I had known from the beginning, that no one at all was going to turn up.”

There was another pause, during which I contemplated building a time machine just so I could go back to that long ago day and turn up at the party to play at being pirates with the birthday boy.

Sherlock gave me a small smile, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. “Finally, I went off to use Mycroft’s microscope as promised, while he and Mother dismantled the decorations.” He finished the wine in his glass. “My mother never tried to give me another party, so it all turned out for the best.”

I really couldn’t think of what to say. Instead, I just touched the back of his hand lightly.

Billy took away the plates and returned with two coffees.

Finally, I cleared my throat, managing to tuck the image of that little boy safely into my memory. “You said it was a two-part story,” I reminded him.

“I did,” Sherlock replied. He waved Angelo over and asked for two brandies.

Angelo beamed.

When the snifters were in front of us, along with a new candle to replace the flickering one, Sherlock resumed his tale.

“I was away for a very long time,” he said softly. “Two birthdays passed. On the second one, I was travelling around the Indian Ocean.” He glanced at me. “Ironically, on a pirate ship. It was not quite as much fun as I ‘d anticipated as a child.”

He did not give me details and I was quietly glad of that.

“I’d forgotten the date, because, well, because it didn’t matter. It was actually Mycroft who reminded me, when we pulled into a port briefly and I managed to get a signal on my phone. He sent a text, which just said, ‘Happy birthday, brother mine.’ And there was a photo attached. I had no idea when or how he’d taken the picture or why he’d kept it. It was a photo of the two of us at a crime scene. I was bent over the body, talking, of course, and you were standing there listening. As you do.” Sherlock paused, as if choosing his words very carefully. “The expression on your face…I looked at you and in that moment I understood. Not what you meant to me; I had known that for a very long time. But looking at the photo, I understood what I meant to you.” 

I wanted to ask him how he’d felt about that. About knowing at long last that he was loved. But I thought perhaps that was a question for another time, a time when we were alone.

He bit his lower lip briefly, before continuing. “I also knew what it must have done to you. Watching me fall. It seemed impossible that you would ever be able to forgive me. It still amazes me that you did.”

I considered his words for a moment and wanted to explain why forgiveness was never really an issue for me. But this whole subject was still so fraught for the both of us. Another time, perhaps, would be better to talk about it. Or possibly the time would never be right for that discussion. I would be perfectly fine either way. 

Instead, I finished the story. “And then you came home and very soon after that, I took you to bed for the first time. Six months ago tonight.”

“Indeed. Although I rather thought it was me taking you to bed.”

“We took each other to bed,” I corrected. Then I lifted my brandy. He did the same. “Happy birthday, Sherlock,” I said.

He smiled at me again and for just a moment, I saw in his eyes the joy of a ten-year-old boy who was having the best birthday ever.

Our snifters clinked together.

***


End file.
